Mildly Relevant News with Joe Baur

Ed FitzGerald is on his way out to challenge John Kasich for the Ohio governor’s mansion, and clearly has lost interest in serving his current constituents as we can see in this picture of him trolling Facebook while a group of Cleveland young professionals ask Cuyahoga County Council to reconsider renovating a dilapidated skywalk.

So I kindly ask that FacebookFitz either pay attention or leave, so we can get an Executive who at least pretends to care.

Meantime, he’s welcome to do the right thing and follow in the footsteps of Carl Spackler and Wile E. Coyote, who destroy the skywalk in future Cleveland.

Ever since Kim Jong-un became the ruler of North Korea, succeeding his father, Kim Jong-il, who died in December 2011, only one international ambassador has had the political wherewithal and diplomatic savvy to be able to break through the veil of secrecy surrounding Kim’s regime and have any sort of meaningful dialogue with the young autocrat. That ambassador? Former NBA All-Star, and drag show fashion plate, The Worm, Dennis Rodman.

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When your government starts playing by the same rules as Fight Club you know you're in trouble

You can find Part One here, and Part Two here.

Living your life under the threat of assassination from an unseen flying drone is a disconcerting way to go through the day. Especially when a snot-nosed pre-teen is at the helm of said drone. It becomes even more terrifying when you realize there is no oversight involved, as I was discovering with each passing day.

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You can find Part One here.

David sat there in his bedroom window, a wry smile spread across his face, his eyes full of malicious glee. I wasn’t entirely sure what my predicament was, or the exact threat hanging over my head, but I did realize my life and security were now in the hands of a twelve-year-old, a situation I’ve spent most of my life strenuously trying to avoid.

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The moving truck arrived early on a crisp, cool Saturday morning. The house it parked in front of, the one next to mine, was a century-old Victorian that at one time must have appeared regal and imposing, had fallen into disrepair under the stewardship of its previous owner, an ancient widow who spent the last fifteen years of her life holed up inside with only a platoon of mangy cats and totem-height stacks of newspapers to keep her company. In the four years since her death the property had sat fallow, its shrubbery, vines, and overgrown tree branches taking on a more active occupancy than the widow had in her final years.

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